The Fires of Heaven (The Wheel of Time #5) 75

Frowning, he squatted with his elbows on his knees. Lan got down with him, but he hardly noticed. A dicey problem. And fascinating. “Best if you try to shove him away. Hit him from the south, mainly.” He pointed to the River Gaelin; it joined the Alguenya some miles north of the city. “There are bridges up here. Leave the Shaido a clear path to them. Always leave a way out, unless you really want to find out how hard a man can fight when he's nothing to lose.” His finger slid east. Wooded hills for the most part, it seemed. Probably not much different from right around here. “A blocking force here on this side of the river will make sure they go for the bridges, if it's big enough and positioned right. Once they are moving, Couladin won't want to try fighting someone ahead of him while you're coming behind.” Yes. Almost exactly the same as at Jenje. “Not unless he's a complete fool, anyway. They might make it to the river in good order, but those bridges will choke them. I don't see Aiel swimming, or hunting out fords for that matter. Keep the pressure on, shove them across. With luck you'll be able to harry them all the way to the mountains.” It was like Cuaindaigh Fords, too, late in the Trolloc Wars, and on much the same scale. Not much different from the Tora Shan, either. Or Sulmein Gap, before Hawkwing found his stride. The names flickered through his head, the images of bloody fields forgotten even by historians. Absorbed in the map as he was, they did not register as anything but his own remembrances. “Too bad you don't have more cavalry. Light cavalry is best for the harrying. Bite at the flanks, keep them running, and never let them settle to fight. But Aiel should do almost as well.”

“And the other reason?” Lan asked quietly.

Mat was caught up in it, now. He more than merely liked gambling, and battle was a gamble to make dicing in taverns a thing for children and toothless invalids. Lives were the stake here, your own and other men's, men who were not even there. Make the wrong wager, a foolish bet, and cities died, or whole nations. Natael's somber music was fit accompaniment. At the same time, this was a game that set the blood racing.

Without lifting his eyes from the map, he snorted. “You know as well as I. If even one of those four clans decides to side with Couladin, they'll take you from behind while your hands are still full of Shaido. Couladin will be the anvil and they the hammer, with you the nut between. Only take half of what you have against Couladin. That makes it an even fight, but you have to settle for it.” There was no such thing as fairness in war. You took your enemy from behind, when he least expected it, when and where he was weakest. “You still have an edge. He has to worry about a sortie from the city. The other half, you split in three parts. One to funnel Couladin to the river, the other two a few miles apart, between the city and the four clans.”

“Very neat,” Lan said, nodding. That slabcarved face never changed, but approval touched his voice, if lightly. “It would gain a clan nothing to attack either force, especially not when the other could take it in the rear. And none will try to interfere in what happens around the city for the same reason. Of course, all four could join. Not likely, if they haven't already, but if they do, everything changes.”

Mat laughed aloud. “Everything always changes. The best plan lasts until the first arrow leaves the bow. This would be easy enough for a child to handle, except for Indirian and the rest not knowing their own minds. If they all decide to go over to Couladin, you toss the dice and hope, because the Dark One's in the game for sure. At least you'll have enough strength clear of the city nearly to match them. Enough to hold them for the time you need. Abandon the idea of pursuing Couladin and turn everything on them as soon as he's well and truly begun crossing the Gaelin. But it's my bet they'll wait and watch, and come to you once Couladin is done for. Victory settles a lot of arguments in most men's heads.”

The music had stopped. Mat glanced at Natael, and found the man holding his harp rigidly, staring at him over it harder than ever. Staring as if he had never seen him before, did not know what he was. The gleeman's eyes were dark polished glass, his knuckles white on the harp's gilding.

With that it all crashed home, what he had been saying, the memories he had been embracing. Burn you for a fool, for not guarding your tongue! Why had Lan had to take the conversation that way? Why could he not have talked about horses, or the weather, or just kept his mouth shut? The Warder had never seemed all that eager to talk before. Usually the man made a tree seem talkative. Of course, he could have kept his own mind focused and his own mouth shut, too. At least he had not been babbling in the Old Tongue. Blood and ashes, but I hope I wasn't!

Springing to his feet, Mat turned to go, and found Rand standing just inside the tent, absently twisting that odd bit of tasseled spear as if he did not realize he was holding it. How long had he been there? It did not matter. Mat spilled it all out in a rush. “I'm leaving, Rand. Come first light in the morning, I am in the saddle and gone. I'd go this minute if I could get far enough in half a day to suit me for stopping. I mean to put as many miles between me and the Aiel — any Aiel — as Pips can cover before I make camp.” No point in bedding down close enough to be snapped up and hung out to dry by somebody's scouts; Couladin must have them out too, and even the others might not recognize him before he had a spear in his liver.

“I will be sorry to see you go,” Rand said quietly.

“Don't try to talk me out of —” Mat blinked. “That's it? You'll be sorry to see me go?”

“I've never tried to make you stay, Mat. Perrin went when he had to, and so can you.”

Mat opened his mouth, then closed it again. Rand had never tried to make him stay, true. He had just done it without trying. But there was not the slightest bit of ta'veren tugging, now, no vague feelings that he was doing the wrong thing. He was firm and clear in his purpose.

“Where will you go?”

“South.” Not that there was much choice of direction. The others led to the Gaelin, with nothing north of the river that he was interested in, or else to Aiel, one lot that would certainly kill him and one that might or might not, depending on how close by Rand was and what they had had for supper the night before. Not good odds, by his reckoning. “To begin, anyway. Then somewhere there's a tavern, and some women who don't carry spears.” Melindhra. She might present a problem. He had the feeling she might be the sort of woman who did not let go until she wanted. Well, one way or another, he would deal with her. Maybe he could just ride out before she knew it. “This isn't for me, Rand. I don't know anything about battles, and I don't want to know.” He avoided looking at Lan and Natael. If either man cracked his teeth, he would punch him right in the mouth. Even the Warder. “You underst